The Juliette Society, Book II

by Sasha Grey

  The thrusting begins again, and hands creep over my body.

  “I want it to be surreal, a dream, a nightmare.” I shiver with want, with what I’m getting, at the areas of my body that burn beneath the crust of cooled wax. “I want it to be surprising, alluring. Undeniable.” The hands stop and start, giving and taking away pleasure, making me crazy with want, with lust as hot as the wax. I’d even take the wax again, anything for them to keep going, keep giving. “It should erase me.”

  I feel something soft on my arm. Breasts? The hands ram me full of something and I cry out, violently coming in waves of heat and ice, my body turning the orgasm painfully deep, like my pussy is angry it took so long and is punishing me instead of the perpetrator. I feel spurts of warmth on my belly, on my thighs. Come, and something warmer, more liquid. I think it’s pee, but I can’t be sure. I feel dirty and tattered, and there’s nothing better than this moment, now.

  More hot wax, but now it’s on my arms and dripping into my pubic hair and the heat makes me come again. A woman moans near me, sounding as spent as I feel.

  The blindfold is removed, and I’m surrounded by five people, including the man who brought me here. They smile at me, praise me with their words and soft voices and hands, and a man with long blonde hair like a Viking pulls something from between my legs — an enormous purple carrot—and takes a bite with a loud crunch, devouring something that was inside me.

  I blink at them. “I want more.”

  My new friends lead me through a low door we have to crouch to fit through—number 398, which makes no sense, because we were in 328 and that should lead to an odd number—but I don’t care, still dripping come down my legs and stinging from the wax.

  This room is decorated with zigzags and swirls of black and white. It’s disorienting to the eyes, the patterns making me dizzy.

  There’s a large St. Andrew’s cross, and my group presses against me, smothering me with their bodies as they tie me to it spread-eagled with my back exposed using the same sweetgrass-scented rope that was around my hands before. My breasts are still tied, bulging from the rope that binds them. They’ve never looked so full.

  I look over my shoulder when they back away, revealing a masked man with a flogger in his hand.

  I take a deep breath and smile.

  I turn back to press myself against the hard wood, noting the slight citrusy scent—lemon oil or some kind of cleaner—and a woman on the other side of the cross steps forward, fastening an absurdly large vibrator to my mound before kissing me softly on the forehead. I almost want to laugh, but I want more, so I don’t interrupt. The flogging starts before the vibrator does, and it hurts worse than I thought it would, sharp, hot smacks on my thighs and ass.

  But soon I’m leaning back, trying to get more of the pain to go with the buzzing on my clit.

  I lose track of how many hits I take—slaps to the back as well, with the flogger or something he swaps in that’s thinner and bites my skin harder. My friends move to where I can see them, and they watch the masked man hurt me.

  They watch him make me tremble and scream.

  They come when he moves to stand between my legs and turn the vibrator as high as it will go before fucking me with something long, hard, and cold, adding a new sensation—temperature—to the mix.

  He makes me come until I can’t breathe, but the cross holds me up; my ropes keep me standing.

  I close my eyes and sag against the restraints, smelling the come and sweat, feeling the pleasure and pain mingle in my body and transform into something bigger than I can contain. He holds the dildo still inside me, and that makes me come from being so full, like he’s fisting me.

  He moves it in and out, and that makes me come.

  His chest hair on my back, tickling the places he hurt, makes me writhe, and I can’t tell if it’s from pleasure or pain.

  It’s both. It’s the sensations Anna wanted me to understand, about what this can do to your body, and now I’m feeling it.

  I’m feeling it so deeply I can taste it.

  The flavor of letting go. The feeling of what happens when you become sensation and lose yourself completely. Silk and satin are nice on the skin, but I wanted to wear the red of stinging flesh and the rippled edges of rope indentations.

  They’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever worn.

  I didn’t want to be eased into anything. I wanted it rough—they got the truth from me and gave me my desires.

  I beg for more.

  My hosts serve me, their submissive.

  TWENTY-ONE

  I SLEEP FOR TWO DAYS, calling in sick to work, staying at Inana’s and living in her bed, relishing the ache in my body. But I wake up no longer as sore, sober, with guilt filling my belly enough that I don’t bother with breakfast.

  The only thing I’m hungry for is Jack. His cock, his come, his sweetness.

  Our connection.

  I miss him with a sudden intensity. He’s the one who wanted to set a date for the wedding. He picked a number that he thinks is lucky because he wanted us to be together forever, and what the hell am I doing, not fighting harder for that man?

  Most women would be jamming themselves into the nearest white dress and cartwheeling down the aisle to be with a man as gorgeous as Jack is, inside and out. He’s sweet, honest, caring. He’s trying to make the world a better place.

  So what the fuck am I still doing here? Okay, he said some shitty things and pressed pause on us, but am I really going to let that be the end? Is that an excuse to throw everything away? Sometimes one person has to suck it up and build that bridge, even if that person wasn’t the one who lit the match that burned it down.

  I’ve been sinking into the mire that was Inana’s life, and it feels amazing, but to what end? What I’m doing isn’t as important as why I’m doing it. Maybe it was just morbid fascination at first, projection and the need to know what could have been.

  But what will that gnosis culminate in? If I found out it was The Juliette Society for sure behind Inana’s death, what am I willing—or able—to do about that? Sticking my neck out for a story is all well and good, but what is the end result of this investigation? Inana’s sister wouldn’t be happy to find out that she may be right that Inana’s death wasn’t a suicide, so I can’t pretend it’s about comforting her.

  My “ghosting” angle was as thin as the wafer that pushed Monty Python’s Mr. Creosote over the edge, and we know how big a mess that ended up being. Except instead of being covered with a giant man’s vomit and a French waiter’s outrage, who knows what will cling to us all if this story comes out.

  Is there a point to pursuing this story, beyond selfish gratification?

  Am I truly doing more than just using Inana’s death as a vehicle for self-exploration? The fact is, if Inana had been into something other than sexual expression as art, I probably never would have taken notice of her. Why would I have? If she was some lady who was into something less provocative, less like my own experiences, I’d have flipped right on past her and never looked back—nor wallowed in it to anesthetize myself against the pain when Jack hurt me.

  My boss once said, “The stories will come to you if you’re patient enough.”

  Did this one come to me, or did I go looking for it? If I stop writing it, stop researching it, that means I’d be acknowledging the niggling doubt that I’m doing something I shouldn’t be. If I acknowledge that, I have to close the door on this part of myself.

  Because if I went in search of it again? That’s going past the point of no return, and if Bob’s got tabs on me to the point where he knows I’m at the hotel, he damn sure knows what’s happening inside it.

  I’ve got to stop this and get my life back. Get my Jack back.

  What will I tell Lola?

  I’ll have to give the diary back.

  It’s something on my mind as I drive back home, stopping to get a little present for Jack.

  Lingerie shopping: one of the most middle-America thin
gs you can do to spice things up with your lover without really trying. Modern female armor. Jack and I have a great sex life when we’re not both burned out from things in our lives taking over, but that’s not why I’m doing it.

  It’s a giant slice of vanilla that makes me feel both sad and normal, and it’s precisely what I need right now. Everything from the fluorescent lights to the snooty salesgirls calms and reassures me that this was the swan dive back into normalcy I needed.

  I stroll around taking in and discarding fantasies in the form of costumes, deciding Jack would be more into something simpler, sexier, a little more understated.

  Something light pink with black lace to be the wrapping on my grand gesture/apology to my fiancé.

  I pause, closing my eyes to imagine the look on his face when he walks in and sees me on our bed. Dressing for sex is sexier than having clothes torn off for sex—as I learned with Caroline. I’m taking a page from her book to thaw the chill between Jack and me.

  I find a few bra and panty combinations that may fit the bill and head to the dressing rooms.

  In the corner is a huge fake confessional. At first I think it’s one of those old photo booths, but it isn’t.

  What’s the purpose of a confessional in a lingerie shop? What’s the point of a confession that no one hears?

  Unless someone does hear it.

  People don’t wear lingerie to be heard, they buy it to be seen in.

  There’s no point to a confessional in here unless someone sees all of it. It’s taken something normal into provocative territory.

  It would be wrong for a lapsed Catholic girl like me not to go to confession, wouldn’t it?

  What absolution will I find inside?

  I step into the booth with my items and undress.

  Is someone watching me right now?

  It’s dark and the air is thick with heat, but it smells vaguely of the pleasant spray they use throughout the store—perfume or air freshener, maybe? I arch my back, move more slowly, more sensuously, imagining a priest on the other side, watching me here, thankful for my sacrifice of modesty on his altar of fantasy.

  There’s a common understanding people have about confessionals—the oratory booths—that the rest of the congregation can’t see who’s confessing. That it’s a consideration for the privacy of the sinner themselves.

  That’s true.

  But have you ever wondered why you’re separated from the priest once you’re inside?

  Temptation.

  Not so much yours, but his.

  Naked, I turn my back on the mirror next to me and bend over, sliding my hands up my thighs before slipping the pink panties up my legs and letting the thong slip between my cheeks, giving them a slap for good measure. I let my breasts hang down so when I stand, they have an extra perk in the bra. My mother didn’t teach me that trick.

  We’re not the only lambs who sin, and you’re damn right the Church knows that.

  So there’s a little screen inside that keeps you separated from the priest and his weaknesses, should they present themselves while you’re regaling him with a story a little too lascivious for his rosary to handle.

  I never understood why it’s required for priests to be celibate. Other faiths allow their clergymen to marry and even have children, and I think that makes them better at their job. How can you counsel someone about the joys of waiting until you’re married before consummating a physical relationship if you’re not even allowed to masturbate?

  The whole thing reeks of hypocrisy and ridiculousness.

  They should be allowed to get married, but even if not, they should get to rub one out once in a while at the very least.

  I can’t see how they don’t. Otherwise, how wild does that shit get on a weeknight when no one’s there but them?

  A confessional would make for a pretty great glory hole.

  A glory, glory, hallelujah hole, if you will.

  If people were allowed to own their sexuality, things would be better all around. When they can’t, that’s when true perversions come out.

  Most are harmless, though still ridiculous.

  Have you heard of furries?

  In the more extreme cases, people will dress up as stuffed animals and go have orgies as those animals—nothing human visible, except for their crotches, which are exposed for easy access. I’m not saying it’s weird to want to fuck a puppet, but…well, to each their own, I guess. You really just wanted the coyote to get that roadrunner? Grab a partner and some costumes, and you can give people a show they’ll never, ever forget.

  Maybe it all circles back to our childhoods.

  You wanted a pony and didn’t get one?

  Pony play! You can dress up and prance around with a bridle between your teeth, waiting for someone to fuck your rump and smack you with a crop and make you squeal.

  Mommy didn’t nurture you enough?

  There’s a recipe for that, too.

  People are strange. Some fantasies are absurd.

  I smile and touch the glass, remembering how real confessions felt. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I wandered into something kinky that should have shocked me, but didn’t. I’ve seen things you wouldn’t believe, wouldn’t suspect.” I remember how Anna said my smile was sweet. Is it still? I grin at the glass, wondering if anyone’s on the other side, or if it’s a ruse, constructed to make the whole thing feel taboo and more scandalous than it really is. Maybe my smile has become as hungry as I feel. Too knowing, like I’ve been a witness to too much.

  But knowing that and feeling it are two different things, and my hand skims down the front of the panties while I talk. “I’ve done things that would scare other people. Shock other people. I saw a man shoot women with a paintball gun—and they were so into what he was doing that they couldn’t wait for him to fuck them. He shot me in the leg and chest with edible paint, and a woman licked it off.”

  Her tongue was impossibly soft against my chest, against my collarbone. I tip my head back, lifting my leg, gazing at my reflection in the dark glass, the blush on my cheeks and chest visible even in that murky reflection. I rub harder, feeling my juices dampen the panties.

  How many other women wore these panties before me, wet them with their cunts?

  “I saw two women use a sling.” I dip a finger inside, biting my lip, remembering the way she took the other woman’s fist all the way inside. I think back to the gun.

  Only this time, I remember him differently, picture Jack standing there, legs spread, shooting women, staining them with the paint— funny how the first four letters in that word spell pain—and filling my mouth with his thick cock, nudging the back of my throat and laughing as he ignored me to mark the other women as his as well. With my free hand, I scoop a breast out of the demi cups and pinch a nipple, harshly, quietly moaning. “I’ve seen more, done more, been more than I thought I could.”

  “Is everything okay in there?” the salesgirl asks.

  I grin. “Yes, thank you.” I plunge another finger inside myself.

  “Do you need another size?”

  I add a third finger. “No, this is perfect.” I release my breast and grip the seat, holding back a moan, positive I’m going to scream and give it away, like someone with Tourette’s frantically trying not to scream obscenities in public.

  “Let me know if you need anything,” she says.

  Can she see? Does she know?

  Do I care?

  Fuck no.

  Jack in leather, me in lace. Him giving exactly what I want without any speech required on my part.

  Me taking what I want from him with a hand on his throat so he’s not able to talk.

  The thought makes me want to scream. But being quiet can be as hot as screaming, and my breath comes in ragged gasps now, hips bucking as I rock them toward my release in panties I haven’t purchased, in front of glass that may or may not be a two-way mirror.

  But we’re all beautiful when we’re coming, and even if I didn’t th
ink so, it’s pretty fucking hard to think about the way I look when my pussy is clamping down on my fingers and light flares behind my eyes as I fall over the edge.

  The scent of arousal filters into my consciousness as I come back down to Earth, awareness coming back to my body.

  And, like any good Catholic, I expect shame to hit.

  It doesn’t. But I realize I don’t really like these panties.

  I should leave them crumpled in a wet, silky ball, walking out before the sales clerks can discover them and what I’ve done. Then again, I’m not one to flee the scene of the crime. Sure, the thought of the snooty clerk finding them and having to touch them makes me grin. But of course I’ll buy them. I’m not just purchasing underwear—now I’m taking home a memory with me.

  I could tell Jack about it to see whether shock and feigned outrage or lust fills his eyes, but this is a secret I’d rather keep pressed close to my skin, for me alone.

  I sit with my eyes closed for a moment, letting the air cool around me, cool me down, and then I change out of the panties and bra and put my own back on, legs rubbery from my release. In fairness, it’s been a crazy twenty-four hours and I didn’t sleep well.

  I should get something to eat.

  I stride to the counter, not bothering to look at anything else.

  I got what I came for.

  Now I’ll buy what I came in.

  The salesgirl smiles but is quiet as she rings up my purchase. Can she smell the come in them, feel how heavy they are with me?

  I look her in the eyes as she tucks them into a pretty pink and black bag after delicately wrapping them in matching tissue paper, and I smile, feeling like someone else.

  Feeling like the unapologetically sexy seductress I could have been.

  That Anna was.

  That Inana was.

  And I like it.

  Even though I’m going back home to give this to Jack, to figure out what the hell I’ve been doing at La Notte, knowing I have something like this inside myself is heady. It dazzles me, reminds me that maybe I’m not as completely wild and uninhibited as Anna and Inana, but I’ve got something beneath my skin that people wouldn’t suspect to look at me.